


Seven Wonders, Fifty Cents

by for_autumn_i_am



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Assistant Armitage Hux, Camden Town, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Gay Bar, Glitter, I mean that's part of the job, Leather, Lots of glitter, M/M, Magician AU, Magician Kylo Ren, Workplace Sex, benarmie, chain bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 07:56:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16154852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_autumn_i_am/pseuds/for_autumn_i_am
Summary: “You could be my assistant,” Ben said.“No, I cannot dance or any of that nonsense."“You have nice legs. You’re flexible.”Armitage snorted.  “Who would pay to see me—”“They’d come for the magic. They’d look at you, and believe.”





	Seven Wonders, Fifty Cents

**Author's Note:**

> Please refer to the end notes for **content warnings**

“I'm a proper unicorn now, look at me, I'm vomiting glitter.”

“Unfuckingbelievable,” Ben says. His hand is on Armitage’s heaving stomach, who’s bent over the broken porcelain toilet in the gay club. He’s wearing his stage costume, the sequin bodice, the fishnet stockings, the gold braid military jacket, the whole deal, except for the top hat, which had been ungraciously tossed aside when he fell to his knees.

“Ridiculous,” Armitage heaves. “Stagefright, why am I still—”

“It’s okay,” Ben tells him, combs his hair back with his fingers. Glitter sticks to his knuckles. The loo stinks of piss, perfume and air freshener. Armitage heaves again, squeezes his eyes shut. Ben kisses his neck, the knot of bone there. He can hear the music, faintly—grandiose and epic, his track, the opening act.

“Pull me up,” Armitage says. “I can stand.”

The music is blaring.

*

“The L, the G, the B, the T, the Q and the A! Give it up for the spectacular, the ma-ma-magical, the out _rrrr_ ageous Kylo! Ren!”

The feedback screams and Ben enters the stage. He's momentarily blinded by the limelights and deafened by the roar of the crowd. They'll _riot_ when the tuxedo comes off. His gaze searches for Armitage among the sparkles, find him doing majorette tricks, working for the missed minutes in a full split.

Ben must give it his everything, earn enough to treat him to tea afterwards, and mint chocolate, and every tiny luxury they can afford. He takes his top hat off, bows, surveys the audience; a good turnup for a Wednesday night, but not enough.

*

Camden Town is cold at night. Armitage is wrapped in Ben’s bomber jacket, staring into Regent’s Canal, nursing a paper cup. His stocking-clad legs move restlessly, tapping a staccato rhythm. His knees are bruised.

“Let’s not go home,” he says. “Let’s stay just a little longer.”

Ben allows himself a moment to look at him, framed by the moonlight on the bridge, like a painting.

“C’mon,” he says. “We gotta—”

“Yeah.”

“He’ll wonder–”

“Yes, I know.”

It’s past midnight. Armitage downs the tea, although it must be still burning hot. He gives Ben a self-conscious smile. He wishes they could stay out, like they used to, sleep on the Night Tube and Bus 88, huddled together, going nowhere. He’s proud of the place he found for them. He doesn’t miss the fear, stink and hunger of the weeks when Armitage got kicked out from home, and Ben flew out here from the States, burning all his savings, just to be with him. He told Armitage they’d figure out something. Kept telling him that.

Now they have this: the magic show, and the rooms at Snoke’s.

*  

They tiptoe through the shadows. The stairs creak; the flat is silent, holding its breath. There’s no sign that Snoke might be awake, but one can never tell for certain. Ben thought it’d be a good idea to nurse a nice elderly gentleman in exchange of food and lodging. He thought it’d work out. He thought—

“Benjamin,” Snoke croaks from the darkness of his bedroom. Armitage hurries his steps, before Snoke could catch a glimpse of glitter.

“Coming, Mr. Snoke,” Ben calls.

“Put on the light, child, let me look at you—Out drinking, were you? Out with girls—”

“It’s the job,” Ben says, then, “a couple of pints, yeah.”

Snoke laughs at that, toothless, humourless. Ben can hear the water running, knows that Armitage is stripping, washes the night away. All the glamour goes down in the drain.

*  

Ben wakes with a start. He hears the soft tapping of bare feet. There’s a shadow passing. He waits, counts to ten, twenty, forty, fifty. Follows Armitage as if he was chasing a dream, into the kitchen. Armitage is filling a pitcher with tap water. Looks at Ben with hunger. The pitcher is overflowing as they’re kissing. The darkness is velvet-soft around them.

Two clean rooms.

Two beds.

The separation of secrets.

“Good night, love you,” Armitage whispers.

*

They met online. Armitage was a different man, back then. An engineering student. Bright, talented, broken. He thought he figured out the secret of Ben’s squeeze box, and decided to comment on his video to expose him to the whole world. He’d been wrong about the mechanics, though. Ben told him. An argument followed. At some point, it got flirtatious. Then private. Then the only thing that mattered to Ben.   

*

“You could be my assistant,” Ben said when they were sitting back-to-back on a bench in Kew Gardens. Armitage was wearing a Burberry coat and soaked-through Oxford shoes. They were the only things he owned.

“No, I cannot dance or any of that nonsense,” he said.   

“You have nice legs. You’re flexible.”

Armitage snorted.  “Who would pay to see me—”

“They’d come for the magic. They’d look at you, and believe.”

*

Oil and sweat pours down Ben’s naked chest. His hair hangs in his eyes as he gets the gold chainsaw whirring, and holds it in front of the zipper of his leather pants, grinds up against the handle. The audience laughs, claps, whistles. Armitage squirms in the sparkling box, looks around with round eyes, immobile, and starts screaming when Ben cuts in deep. His head is thrown back, his throat flashes. He’s the most beautiful thing Ben has ever seen. He gets the blades. He’s here to create and ruin something beautiful. That’s the show.

*

“I want you,” Armitage breathes, fingers tight in Ben’s hair, pulling him closer. The dressing room is tiny, messy, and they’ll have to leave in ten minutes, give the key to the next performer, some fucking comedy act.

Ben is tired of being the responsible one, tired of ruining the fun; of having Armitage so near all day, and never to have him. The leather almost breaks as he gets himself in hand, strokes his cock while Armitage spreads his legs. Ben tears at the fishnet, rips the bodice. Armitage is gripping the edge of the makeup table, his back pressed to the dirty mirror.  His eyes are dark and poisonous.

“Those fingers of yours,” he says. “How many boys do you reckon imagined them up their arse? The slight of hand—That’s it, yes.”

Ben coats his fingers in Vaseline, dips inside–the first knuckle, the second, the index finger, the middle, the pointer. That secret heat, and Armitage panting against his lips, their foreheads pressed together.

“Were you thinking about this, kitten? On stage.”

“What do you think—How could I focus on anything when you’re—There, there, yes!”

Ben rubs at his prostate, makes him squirm. His cock is throbbing with need, arching up to his hard belly. He steals a kiss, pushes in, just the tip. Someone’s banging at the door, and that becomes their rhythm as Ben rolls his hips and slides deeper, making everything on the makeup table jiggle and dance while Armitage is gripping his shoulders, head thrown back.

“Harder, harder, make me feel it, let me remember—”

“At night,” Ben says, fucking him in earnest, “when I’m alone and everybody has gone to bed I think about you and touch myself, it’s like nothing has changed, it’s like—Still online, and—the distance—”

“I’m here, can’t you feel I—” 

“I think of you on the stage,” Ben goes on. The door rattles. “Splitting you in half—”

“Fuck—”

“And at home, coming home and it’s just the two of us, there’s no one else, we have our own apartment, I can take you anywhere, I can—”

“Ben—”

“I promised you that, remember?”

The lock gives, and he has to pull out and step away.

*

Armitage is frying beans and sausages in a pan, a bathrobe thrown over his pyjamas. Ben wants to come up behind him, hug him to his chest, kiss his neck. He looks adorable, and he looks cold, and slightly hungover, and his lips are still split from the fight that ensued in the dressing room. Ben should gather him up in his arms, tell him how proud he is, tell him—

Snoke turns a page in the newspaper, meets Ben’s eyes as he does that. Right, he shouldn’t stare. He shouldn’t be ogling Armitage. He should sit, and look straight—

“I was thinking,” Snoke says with a flair of casual air, “that maybe it’s not for the best that I am left alone for most of the night. Yesterday I woke with a terrible cough, and alas, none of you were at hand, I nearly choked.”

Ben counts to one, two, three, four, five.

“Why didn’t you call, Mr. Snoke?” Armitage asks, cheery. Afraid.

This is ridiculous. Snoke is not ill. They all know this. He doesn’t need caretakers. He needs fucking maids. They told him they’d be working at night. They told him they were security guards.

Snoke would wait until they got home. Watch them like a hawk.

“Much good it would do to me,” Snoke says, turning to another page. Peers at Armitage, who quickly snaps his head away. “What happened to your face?”

*

Their next show is cancelled. It’s a warning, the bar owner says. Armitage thinks it’s a threat.

“We can figure it out,” Ben says. They’re walking past closed shop fronts in Camden Town, the bright colours of advertisements dulled by the steely rain. Armitage is in a faux fur coat, boots, stockings. He’s shivering.

“How many magicians are fucking their assistants?” he asks. “Is that standard?”

“What are you getting at?”

“How many?”

Ben has no intention of doing the math. He puts his hand on Armitage’s back, who leans into his touch like a cat, like the cat he had to leave behind. That’s a good sign and a bad omen.

“A few, I suppose. It’s not uh, exactly ethical. But you were my boyfriend, first.”

Armitage sidesteps a puddle, and pulls away from Ben.

“I was thinking,” he says, “that if I was any good, they wouldn’t fuck with us, despite—”

“Come off it, you’re good, we’re good, they’re idiots.”  

“I mean,” Armitage says, “everybody in the audience wants to fuck you.”

“Not the aces or the lesbians,” Ben says. Armitage laughs, but it’s strangled. His eyes are wet.

“The thing in showbusiness is—the image, you know, and how you–You must look available. Single. Have that flirtation, but—”

“We didn’t fuck on stage.”

Armitage shrugs. “Might as well have.”

Ben puts his hands around his shoulders. Once again, Armitage doesn’t pull back. He melts. Ben hugs him tighter, so their steps are swaying as they’re balancing the weight of each other.

“We can change the act, if you want,” Ben says, gentle. “But only if you want. I won’t change it just because we’re pressured. It’s a gay fucking club, for fuck’s sake. Everybody is getting stuffed—”

“Not the staff,” Armitage says. “I don’t know, maybe I better stay home with Snoke.” He nuzzles Ben’s neck. An apology for entertaining the idea, perhaps.

The rain keeps falling, and the vivid streets are empty.

“I can’t do this without you.”

“You can. You can get a new assistant.”

“I know. I won’t.”

*

“You said ‘pick a card; any card.’ I liked that,” Armitage mused. They were sitting on the floor of an underground station, with nowhere to go. They didn’t know it yet, but they’d find a newspaper abandoned on the tube, and there’d be an advertisement in it, _food and lodging_.

Ben chuckled. “It’s what every magician says.”

“I liked the choice it implied,” Armitage went on, squeezing his hand. “I picked the king of hearts and you asked if I was happy with it, and–That I could change my mind, any moment, I could keep–making changes–and it wouldn’t have ruined the trick, would it? It wouldn’t have ruined anything.”

*

The night is velvet blue. There’s silver light from Armitage’s phone. His finger is pressed to his lips. Ben hardly dares to blink as Armitage climbs over his bed, straddles his knees.

“What are you doing here,” he breathes, reaching for his hips.

“I was thinking,” Armitage whispers. He has nothing on but a soft shirt and briefs. “I think I stopped giving a shit. Want me?”

Ben holds his waist, holds on tightly. He could never let go.

“Always.”

“Shall we?”

Ben swallows. Snoke is next door. He’s a light sleeper, and the walls are thin. Then again: it’s still raining, and the hard patter of it muffles the noise of hands sliding, the duvet being pulled away.

“I want to,” he says, his swelling cock tenting his pyjama pants. Armitage cups his bulge, and he can’t keep down a wet gasp.

“Think about it this way,” Armitage says, soft, rubbing him through the worn cotton. “If he finds out, we’ll be free. Free of—the pressure of the idea that we let this opportunity go to waste, that we could have kept the rooms, and have a full belly, and showers, and a washing machine—”

“We’d be back on the streets,” Ben says. Armitage pulls his pants down, lets the waistband catch under his taut balls. “Would that be—Could you live like that, Armie? You hated it, you hated it so much, I—”

“You didn’t get to come inside me. I hated that as well.” His breath is hot and damp. He kisses the slick head of Ben’s cock, licks into the slit. Ben bites on his hand, hips jerking up, and he has to grab the headboard with his free hand to keep still, he has to—Keep still—

He should tell Armitage that with their earnings, with their savings, if they keep doing this, if they don’t fuck up, they could get a room and keep a room in ten months, not in zone one, but maybe in the outskirts of the city, with college students like they used to be, who wouldn’t mind the noises if the music was loud enough, who would be out for the night, who would—

There’s a stir and Armitage is pulling back immediately, leaves Ben aching and wanting.

It’s just the wind.

*

The water torture cell was grandfather’s favourite number. Ben thinks about him, feet locked into stocks, suspended upside, down, mid-air, and slowly lowered into a glass cabinet filled with water. The chains are only decorative. They’re also the only thing he’s wearing, the only thing guarding his modesty.

Armitage kneels by the cell, presses his lips to the glass. Normally, he’d lick at it. Now it’s just a modest kiss. Ben still returns it, and even through the silence of the water, he can hear the faint roar of the crowd. They like this.

_Please love it._

_Please adore it._

_Go crazy._

_Let me keep it._

*

Armitage goes home early. Packs everything and leaves while Ben is still drying his hair. Maybe it’s for the best. Some small compromises.

He took the money. Some coins. They’re still being punished, and weren’t allowed to take tips. The ticket prices are only enough to pay for the venue, and storage, and all that shit.

Ben is thinking of the streets. There must be another way.

Maybe they should go to Kentish Town station. Get a train. Go as far as it takes them.

Keep going.

*

“Heading out?” Snoke asks.

They’re by the door, with packed satchels and heavy coats. Armitage looks alarmed, eyes round.

“I’ll be back,” he says.

“I’d rather if one of you stayed. I thought we discussed it.”

“I’ll be home by midnight, like yesterday. Wouldn’t that be all right?”

“It’s the coughs,” Snoke says, interlacing his fingers.

“Should we take you to a hospital, sir?” Ben asks darkly. Snoke looks at him, mouth twisted. Shit.

“My health has never failed me. I’m sure it’ll pass. Still, I’d rather if someone stayed.”

“You go,” Armitage says, taking off his coat, his bag. “I’ll call in sick.”

They both know that’s not an option.

*

“Card tricks?” the owner says. He’s a young man. He has pink hair and a flamingo jacket.

“If we have cameras, and a projector—”

“We don’t.”

“I could get into the crowd,” Ben says. “Walk around, or—have a spot—a mentalist’s room, huh?”

“Darling,” he says. “Sweetheart. They’re not here for tricks. They’re here for this.” He squeezes Ben’s arm. His tricep flexes, a reflex.

“I can’t do illusions without Armie.”

“We can get you a new assistant.”

“No. They’d have to learn the routine. Practice it.”

“So train them. Something simple.”

Ben bites his lips. The owner, his owner, sighs, rolls his eyes.

“A magician never tells his secrets,” Ben mutters. “Not to just—anyone.”

“What am I supposed to do, then? I cannot cancel.”

Ben is silent. Just stands there. The owner takes pity. Reaches up and squeezes his shoulder.

“I was going to talk to you about Armitage anyway,” he says. “I was going to ask you to...reconsider.”

“Why? He’s good. He’s trying. Is it about the—” He gestures to the makeup table, blushes.

“I’m still mad about that, but you know, if you are going to have a twink, why not have someone younger? You don’t have to date them. I don’t care who you date as long as you keep it in your pants in future.”

“He’s—”

“He looks exhausted.”

“Because he works his ass off! You have no idea what he’s going through—”

“Yeah,” the owner says, “but I look at him on that stage, and I can tell he’s going through something. Something that’s ain’t pretty.”

*

He finds Armitage sitting on the kitchen floor, back pressed to the spice cabinet. He has a cup of loose leaf tea, fragrant, a light red. There’s a thin film on the surface. It must’ve gone cold a while ago.

“I sold my soul for darjeeling,” Armitage says. There are purple shadows around his eyes, and his cheekbones stand out.

He’s beautiful.

He peers at Ben, looks away, scratches at one of his sideburns distractedly. “How did it go?”

“It didn’t go well.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Maybe we should see what Soho has to offer to a pair of young men.”

Armitage squeezes his eyes shut. “I can guess,” he mutters.

He used to have an apartment in Belgravia. Open spaces, marble, a fucking chandelier. Ben used to joke about it during their Skype calls. _You live in a castle_.

It was in Brendol’s name. He used to come by to check on him. Had his own key. Found a picture Ben sent to him. Found the replies as well. Went through the better half of the chatlog by the time Armitage got home.

“Maybe it’s time I called my parents,” Ben says.

“Do you want to?”

Ben shakes his head. Fidgets with the hem of his torn sweater. “They’d send money.”

“You shouldn’t live on your parents’ money. That’s a lesson learnt, for me.”

“They’re not like that. They’d like you. I could bring you home.”

Armitage meets his eyes. Okay. Yes. He does look like a wet rat. But still—

“They wouldn’t blame me for you dropping out of college? Leaving without a word?”

“It was an emergency.”

“Not responding to any—”

“I could tell them. Everything. How messy it was.”

There’s a beat. Armitage rubs his nose, puts the tea aside, untouched. “You should go home, but I won’t be coming.”

“Then I’m not going.”

Armitage gets to his feet. Walks past him as Ben reaches for his hand. “You made a mistake, falling for me.”

“Bullshit.”

“Armitage?” Snoke calls from upstairs.

“Coming!” Hux yells back.

“Bullshit,” Ben repeats, and punches the wall. Keeps hitting it, even when Armitage’s steps have long faded away.

*

_Can you make me disappear?_

_Please make me disappear._

_Vanished into thin air._

_I’d like that._

*

Hands in his pockets, curled into fists, he’s walking through Soho, and Covent Garden, Hammersmith, Clapham High; there must be a place for them, a corner in the universe. He walks around until late at night, keeps his eyes peeled, and by the time he gets home Armitage is fast asleep, and Snoke is waiting.

*

“My conclusion is that we should get into cocaine,” Ben says, shaving side by side with Armitage. They keep the door open, and their tone hushed.

“Don’t even joke about that,” Armitage mumbles, “my mum was a crackhead.”

“Shit. Sorry. I didn’t know that.”

“I’m taking the piss. Never knew her.” He bumps into him, briefly. Teasing.

Ben grins. “Jerk.”

“I’ll fix it,” Armitage says. “I’ll—”

*

“Sounds amazing,” Mr. Dameron says, flipping through the photos on Ben’s phone. “Magic shows in a nightclub, never heard about anything like that. Bet our guests would live for it.”

Ben is sitting on the other side of the writing desk. The office is part dressing room, part storage, small but cozy. Mr. Dameron is smoking casually, something with a pink filter. The smoke follows the elegant gestures of his hands.

“Be warned though,” he says, “you reap what you sow. Entrance is free. So all you get is the tips, and this _looks_ expensive.”

“Oh I—Made all of them, it’s—Home Depot, mostly. What’s your percentage?”

“I get the honour of hosting your show.” Mr. Dameron locks the screen, and slides the phone across your table. Ben blinks at his reflection in it.

“No, but seriously. I’d like to know—”

“Listen, at this point, The Resistance is a charity organisation. All I can give you is a chance to earn some pocket money. I cannot guarantee it. I can, however, keep you off the streets in someplace warm, for a few hours. Finn has a part-time in a bakery, so we have stale cookies. We have security. We look after each other. Nobody will steal your shit or corner you. That’s what it’s about. The gay club is a front. It’s a safehouse.”

Ben fidgets with the phone. “That sounds nice, actually.”  

“What about the skinny guy?” Poe says, pointing at the Huawei with his chin. “He’s with you?”

“Yeah.”

“Any other members?”

“No.”

“He looks bad. Please bring him along. Rey makes soup on Wednesdays.”

*

B: so I’ve got some news??

A: Oh? Suffice to say, me too.

B: meet me @ camden lock?

A: Snoke is nagging me.

B: fuck him    
  
A: Thank you very much, I’d rather not.  
  
B: come meet me

A: Good news, then?  
  
B: the best

A: We’ll see about that ;)

*

Armitage is wearing the Burberry coat and the Oxford shoes. He has his old suit on, a fitted navy blue. He still takes his place next to Ben on the iron railing, watches the canal and the willow trees below.

“So,” he says.

“You first,” Ben says. Leans to his shoulder, presses a kiss there.

They’re saved.

All they needed was somewhere where they could be themselves. They could walk the streets during the day, take a train, and than transform into something glamorous at Dameron’s. The winds of a hard winter are roaring, but they can do this.

“I swallowed my pride,” Armitage says, “and reached out to Rae.”

When there’s no entrance fee, the audience tips better.

“I told her of my—situation. I was hoping she could get us lodgings in Cambridge. She’s the headmaster, and—”

If they manage to make friends, someone might tell about them a room to let.

“—her connections. Unfortunately, she’s relocated to Massachusetts.”

All they need is a room and a place to perform. Both of them were promised the world, but this much will be enough. They won’t take up much space. Not if they keep close.

“Fortunately, she’s in need of an assistant. I may not be qualified, but she has the utmost trust in me.”

Just like this—huddled together.

“She can’t finance my trip.”

Desperate for warmth.

“However, she offered a salary.”

Sharing breath and a heartbeat.

One soul, and two bodies.

“According to my calculations, while most of savings would be spent on the plane ticket, visa, et cetera, I would earn enough, even with the rent, to fly you out in seven months.”

“Seven _months_ _?_ ” Ben blurts out.

“Seeing that you’d need lodgings in the meanwhile, and I’d send you—”

“I can’t live a day without you,” Ben says, pulling back. Gets a hold of Armitage’s lapels. He looks faint, like he’s already vanishing. Ben pulls at his clothes. “Can you?”

Armitage gets hold of his wrists, gently. “I can’t, but I will. This is the only way to stay together.”

“Separation.”

“Yes.”

“I got a job.”

“Ah?”

“An offer.”

“How much?”

Ben is silent.  

“Because if we add your earnings,” Armitage says, “maybe you could come in five months, four, even, it really all depends—”

“Seven.”

*

_Eight. Nine. Ten. Hold your breath. I’ll open my eyes. Was it your card? The king of hearts._

*

“When do you leave?”

“Seven.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I’m sorry.”

Ben suddenly cannot breathe.

*

“You won’t even kiss me goodbye?”

“Choke on a dick and die,” Ben mumbles, curled up on his unmade bed. Armitage is standing in the door, a duffel bag thrown over his shoulders. That’s all he has.

So he’s not taking the suitcase with his costumes. Fine. Ben will have to burn them, then.

“Don’t be like this,” Armitage pleads. Steps into the room, walks up to him. Remains standing. He’s close to crying, he’s sickly pale, but he’s smiling. “I’ll call you every day.”

“I’ll tell you every day that I hate you for leaving, and hang up.”

“Very funny.”

“I’ll do it. I’ve given you everything.” 

“Can you fault me for trying to pay it back?”

Ben sniffs. Armitage reaches out, as if he was trying to pet a stray dog. Ben flashes his teeth. Armitage still manages to stroke his hair.  

“I’m so grateful for everything,” he says.

“Don’t,” Ben snaps.

“I love you.”

“Don’t.”

“I can’t stop.” He tucks at a lock, and kisses Ben’s ear. “You can’t make me stop,” he whispers.

“Stay, then.”

“We’ll be together in no time. Wish upon a star.” He hands him a card, the one Ben made him sign for a trick. It has his new number on it. Ben curls his fist around it. Wants to send it up in flames.

Armitage kisses away his tears, and leaves.

*

Doors closing, doors opening. A math problem of seemingly endless opportunities. When he left Snoke’s, he took the duvet with him. He also took Armitage’s clothes.

Started walking the streets of Soho.

*

“Girls, guys, nonbinary pals, please welcome the one and only Kylo Ren, mentalist extraordinaire, the master of decks!”  

*

“I’ll need a volunteer to help me.”

*

“I cannot do it alone, I’m afraid.”

*

“I cannot.”

*

“I’m afraid.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Content warnings** : the fic starts with a scene where a character is vomiting / they live with Snoke, who’s very controlling and passive-aggressive; it’s also heavily implied he’s a homophobe / memories of homelessness with a hint of romanticization (since Ben tries to remember the Good Parts of it) / Ben and Armitage are caught in a compromising position / bar fight mention, Armitage is lightly injured / the bondage is on-stage / memories of Brendol being a prick (and what do you know, a homophobe) / hopeful, but definitely not happy ending
> 
> A million thanks for Kylux twitter for cheering me on, ktula for the proofreading and sterne for the beta work! 
> 
> The fic was inspired by Amanda Fucking Palmer's [ The Assistant](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FbXmPgFvtlg) The dynamics is very different, but I wanted to capture this mood.
> 
> There's a [moodboard](http://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/178636412676/seven-wonders-fifty-cents-you-could-be-my) for the fic!


End file.
